


Toeloop Tattle

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bev is a Hockey Player, But Careful there might be Claws, But you'll have to wait for Chapter Two ;), Coach Bedelia, Coach Jack, Fannibal Secret Exchange, Guess we will see!, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Young Hannibal, Young Will Graham, figure skating AU, it's fluffy, murder husbands?, skating husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9056350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: Will and Hannibal have always been rival skaters, that are best friends, or maybe worst enemies, possibly each other's most terrible decisions, or the most excellent. The point is, they just can't get each other out of their heads, which is probably a little dangerous, what with the jumping, spinning and blades.
--
 
  "Despite his very real presence in the rink, Hannibal feels no different than the ice, gives off none of the impressions that others so handily cast out left and right. He's every bit as smooth and slippery, leaves Will's fingers sliding down glass they can't grasp. He may as well be a statue, carved from stone and glacier. But he isn't. He's there, and real, and watching Will."





	

There are a few things Will likes about the rink in the morning, so early that no one is awake yet, so early that he's fairly sure no one is supposed to be in here and even more sure he doesn't care.

For one, the ice is a sheet of unmarred smoothness, stretching an endless silky surface before him, soft mist clinging cold and bracing against his skin. There aren't any marks here, but the footsteps he's making, except his own scratches and gouges across the ice as he strokes along, muscles following reflexes long pounded into them, as easy as breathing, and it grounds him. Slows the ever racing rhythm of his thoughts, lulls it into a limbo he can ignore. The silence is nice too, the external one to match the internal. An eerie muting of the air into a breathing suspension, no one else's over loud emotions or impressions pressing into the corners of his mind, no one's grating voice or aggravating laughter, or worse, attempts at eye contact seeping into his skin. In this heartbeat the ice transforms into sanctuary, unfolds its freezing arms around him, as numbness creeps into the edges of his toes and the slight ache of exertion begins, and he is thankfully, miraculously, even, alone, lost in the flow of air around him. 

He knows it can't last, of course, the peace never does, but he's not exactly expecting the sudden figure emerging, dark, more shadow than human for moment under the dim electric buzz of the lights, a black mass of unreality, then - Will blinks, and the familiar garish lines of plaid shoot into colorful being, the sway of bone and muscle beneath them manifesting all at once. Only Hannibal could carry off plaid warm-ups with  his usual look of imperious amusement, not a hair out of place, all before six o'clock. 

This intrusion is both the best one possible...and the worst. Despite his very real presence in the rink, Hannibal feels no different than the ice, gives off none of the impressions that others so handily cast out left and right. He's every bit as smooth and slippery, leaves Will's fingers sliding down glass they can't grasp. He may as well be a statue, carved from stone and glacier. But he isn't. He's there, and real, and watching Will with the usual intensity, watches Will the way Will watches other people, and he doesn't like it, to be on this side of the perception. He doesn't think Hannibal can read him, not exactly, but he seems to take perverse delight in trying. 

The first inclination that hits him is to dodge away, a sharp turn with a flurry of snow, and a glide in distinctly the other direction. But there's nowhere  _ really  _ to go, vast though the rink may have seemed, when he was. alone. The thought goes pointedly in Hannibal's direction and the bastard smirks, meets glare with smile. And though he'd usually make his exit at the sight of someone else, Hannibal's always been a special case. What sort of case it is though, that he has no fucking clue. 

"Hello Will."

The other greets and he crosses his arms coming to halt at the sideboards. 

"Lecter." He says tersely in response, just to see the displeased twitch of Hannibal's brow, abrupt tone, and no openings for familiarity. Will probably shouldn't enjoy pushing his buttons as much as he does. But outwardly he just raises his eyebrows. "I thought you were away at that competition." He doesn't admit he knows which one. "What are you doing here?" 

Hannibal doesn't respond right away, seems to taste the air, eyes casting across the rink. He pauses at something indistinct, and for a moment, Will thinks he hears something too, a soft clicking noise far across from them, buried in the stands, but it's gone in an instant and Hannibal is looking at him again.

"What am I doing here?" He returns the words as though surprised, innocent bewilderment painting over his features, but his eyes are smiling. "I would say that given that you are aware of the skates on my feet, and more globally, that I partake of this sport, the answer to that would be quite evident." 

There's nothing to give that but an eye roll. 

"Pretty sure you're just here to annoy me." He grumbles and Hannibal's smile twinkles that much more.

"What a damning accusation you make." The words sing out with even more of that put on disbelief, and a hand up to the heart as though wounded. There's no exact denial though, and Will huffs out a cloudy breath, not exactly sure what he's about to say next. Tell Hannibal to beat it, or tell him he's missed him, or tell him - 

But there's no telling anything because the doors fly open all at once and Jack is there, brow furrowed, jaw set. "Will - I was thinking about that jump in the mid-section, we could probably improve that if we, also I just caught Lounds sneaking out so - "

He pulls short though, full stop, arms crossed as his eyes fall onto Hannibal who has calmly stepped onto the ice in the meanwhile.

"So now I know who let her in." Hannibal affixes his eyes onto Jack and they're sharper now, somehow predatory, the soft amusement that had tumbled off of him in waves just moments ago grows claws, and there are teeth to the grin now. 

"And I have been having an excellent morning, thank you for inquiring, Jack. Yours as well, I trust?" 

There's a full out growl at that, and honestly, watching his coach's blood pressure go up is pretty funny, even if it will mean his ass later. Jack is the best, but not the best at remembering that Will is a person sometimes and not just a gold medal machine. He's not above enjoying his momentary agitation. 

"I told you." The words are bit off. "To stay away."

"And your keen eyes have made it so very difficult not to comply -" The mockery is folded away so many times that it's hard to pick a specific twist of tongue to pounce one which just makes Jack's fists tighten that much more. 

"But as you can see, Will is perfectly fine. Not in the least confused about where he is or who he's talking to." The words slither out slyly. "Perfectly capable of both those choices." 

And Will turns his eyes on Hannibal with an appraising flick at that, before turning away from them both.

He's not really going to stick around for the fireworks that are sure to go off. Hannibal really must not fear death either, prodding around  _ that  _ particular incident right to Jack's face, watching him intently. His coach's last protege, Miriam Lass, had been looking at a clear victory in nationals a few years ago, but from nowhere was struck with a sudden bout of confusion. Will hadn't been much then, a backup on the sidelines, but he'd seen enough to know she barely seemed to know where she was at the time, let alone skate. Wide eyed and fearful, she'd stepped onto the ice anyway, listening to some faraway music only she could hear, and had fallen immediately on an easy trick, landed wrong and broken her arm, never fully recovered. And that day, no consciousness, no gold, pointed a finger at Frederick Chilton later, of all people. Someone, Will, admittedly, would not put such clumsy attempt at sabotage past...if it hadn't meant sudden victory for one Mischa Lecter.

Jack blames Hannibal. Truthfully, he's pretty sure he blames Hannibal too, except that doesn't stop their odd banter or the strange pull he feels whenever they're together. And he's not sure at all what that says about him. Doesn't stop his mouth from going off on its own just as he's about to be out of earshot. 

"We were going to have breakfast, Jack. It'll be fine." 

He clamps his lips shut, but doesn't miss the gleam of triumph Hannibal sends in his direction. Leaving Jack be to skate off into center ice. Offers a wry half smile back that's mostly facing away from them both. 

"Will." Jack's voice is warning, but he's already well away from the boards, drawing towards Hannibal. 

There's a strange vibration through Hannibal's voice as he stops before him, an exacting drop of pretense, which Will knows better than to suspect is not pretense in itself, a little well of earnestness. "I brought protein scramble enough for two." 

"And coffee -" One eyebrow up, testing, this side of teasing. 

"And coffee."

He makes a noncommittal voice in the back of his throat, Jack has left again, stalked away to go call a certain blonde coach, as icy as their sport, about appropriate behaviors,  and somewhere Freddie Lounds is rumor mongering about skating husbands and enemy camps on Toeloop Tattle, but - may as well give her something to talk about. After all, if Hannibal's here with him, he's not anywhere else. 

"Then I guess you can stay." 

And with that he takes off again, pushes himself into speed and silence, lets Hannibal drift around him, fits his pieces into the puzzle - the heavy fall of attention on the twist of his limbs and the stretch of his flight. In a moment or five, when Hannibal has started his own practice, content enough that they're both there together, he'll draw back, watch the other from under his hair. The barely contained power, the brutal sort of grace that no one else can quite encompass. Hannibal spins tighter and jumps higher than the rest of the competition, but Will can mirror his movements just from proximity, and  _ he _ doesn't let himself get lost in how good he is only to stumble over toe-pick in front of the world. 

There's no tension though, Hannibal isn't concerned that Will is committing sequences of his program to muscle memory just by watching, just like he's not concerned with the other's overwrought interest in him, well, not that concerned. 

It's not quite being alone, but maybe it’s better.    


**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fannibal-buffets Secret Hannibal Exchange for the dear todayweststumble!


End file.
